In Her Last Phone Call
Currently, the northeast Indian state of Manipur is in turmoil. Not account-ing for undocumented deaths, an increasing estimate of 200 people are dead from the outbreak of violence between two ethnic communities: the Meiteis and the Kukis.
mother hopes to tell me more about
tree-root trails, melodies woven out of winds
roaring down our ricefields on winter afternoons
& the soft pattering of a dying fawn’s hooves.
it’s a rainy night in her city of flaking frescos,
the last lot of bulbuls on the infinite cables
are gazing at a mustard-yellow sky,
lonely for a lazy summer sunrise.
she gently unbolts the windows against
the inky fabrics of the world, the callous rinse
of sirens, the smell of charred wood lice—
she who chased cartwheels in a rancid earth
hopes for purple blooms in a future spring.
she who cleaned wrath off her brother’s body
imagines a beautiful future for her son—
her words thaw into golden green clouds
as she leans & listens for the sobs of a cuckoo.
it’s raining in Athens too, a brood of stars jump
on the hood as I race onto Route 441 & sob
over a cold voice on the radio explaining God.
